Valentine's Day
by barefoot11
Summary: Tormented by his classmates, Matthew finds it hard to keep going on. Keeping him stable is Gilbert, the one who chases away his demons - but who also pays the price. Human names used, Prussia/Canada if you squint, AU, character death, song!fic


The frown etched onto his lips was premature for his age. Not even twenty years old, wrinkles were curved and cut into his skin. But it was all purely physical – just an effect that settled itself on his face, on his skin. With his hands clenched so tightly, he knew that fine red and white lines would mar into his palm, curved like the moon and resembling his fingernails. Light snow fell in ribbons that draped across his numb shoulders, spun around his arm and tightened his senses. It all fell beautifully before his even more beautiful eyes – in loitering flakes and flurries, that fell on his glasses and littered his hair and heavy clothing. He kept his fists hidden in the depths of his red hooded sweatshirt, though his knuckles still burned red against the winter's icy wrath. Whispers on the wind brushed against him from behind, pushing him forward, as if serving as a warning for what was to come.

His hair mingled within it all – it captured frail snowflakes, was carried away with the wind's fervor, and was dipped into the cold air, making it frozen and chilly to the touch. Not that Matthew was bothering with his hair at the moment – his mind and eyes burned with something more important.

_My insides all turned to ash – so slow_

Emotion had never seized him so hard. Like his social tendency, his mind's swirling sensations were calm and few. Keeping a cool head was what others called it, though he was anything but emotionless. A twist of the lips was all it took for him to convey a series of dispositions: when elated, they stretched upwards, and his teeth appeared slightly between them; when annoyed, a distasteful scowl distorted his features into something more ruthless; when saddened, it was a faint fall that his lips experience, and his sadness always came with the firm feeling of confusion, surprise – he never saw it coming.

Like what was spinning in his mind hadn't been premeditated either. Anger. It was such a hot feeling, despite the exterior conditions. With it, he couldn't think properly, or form any sequence of events to release his feeling. All he knew was that he was infuriated. Sadness from minutes before had shifted and morphed into a more savage form: its counterpart, rage. His face carried a flush that could have been caused by the rare emotion, or it could have been placed on by the wind. Either way, he could feel his own heartbeat radiating through the mass of skin on his face, creating a headache in other places on his head.

Without even trying, Matthew had managed to lose himself in his thoughts, and effectively lose his footing as well. While his face met sharp ice and crippled pavement, while his nose flared in pain, his ears registered other sounds – other sounds that proved to be dangerous, since he could figure out exactly what they were.

_And blew away as I collapsed – so cold_

Footsteps – large and taunting – approached him in a shadow. So many of them – six, ten, he couldn't count them with the amount of snow blurring his eyelashes. Matthew's bag – the one so heavily slung over his shoulders – made it difficult to haul himself up and onto his feet.

But he didn't need to waste the effort himself, for huge hands gripped him about the shoulders, and skillfully lifted him like a doll back onto unsteady feet.

Matthew staggered, and was stunned into immobility.

_A black wind took them away – from sight_

The ones he had so frantically run from – had actually followed him, and had been so silent to have not even alerted him to it, until it had been too late. If he hadn't had fallen, he realized, and given them the perfect chance to leap, he just might have made it home. At home, he had planned to finally take his brother up on the offer to become Matthew's own hero.

Because that's what he needed at the moment.

A hero, where no one else was.

A snort of amusement, or scorn, came from the tallest one's nose, and he cocked in head in disapproval. He held tight to the victim's shoulders, and forced him forward. His other, free hand, motioned lazily across the boy's chest. "Look at him. Such a klutz, falling face-first into the snow." He made a move to actually brush the snow off – but he only smacked the blonde's chest, so hard that the offended wheezed.

_And now the darkness over day – that night_

Laughs of approval shook the two other boys' chest. They, too, were abnormally large for their grade level, since they all – had they studied – should have been at least two grades higher. But they found it extremely pleasant to stay around and bully the tenth graders, especially ones like Matthew – small, girly, and weak emotionally and physically. It was a perfect target.

_And the clouds above move closer_

Stumbling backward – into a tall, picket fence, no doubt – Matthew kept his wits about him and dropped his book-bag. This was a sign of defeat, but the group saw it inverted.

"Ho ho ho, so you're gonna try fightin' this time, uh? Well, I'd like to see you try," crooned the leader, his eyes already glistening at the thought of potential bloodshed. After rolling up his sleeves and cracking his knuckles – and listening to his groupies echo him to the dime – he wiggled his finger toward himself. "Show us what you've got, weakling!"

_Looking so dissatisfied_

Matthew, horrified at the thought, felt goose bumps of fear rise on his frigid skin. He backed up farther, and attempted his voice. "N-N-No, that's not what I w-w-want!" He had only put his bag down to show that there were no obstacles that would get in the way of the assault. "P-P-Please, I d-don't –"

_But the heartless wind kept blowing – blowing._

A new set of footfalls joined the afternoon's air, quick and determined across the icy sidewalk. Puffs of heavy and warm breaths formed, and a new figure approached, with the decorum of a confident patron when he was nothing more than a passerby. A passerby bent on justice, and the self-satisfied feeling received when justice was served. "Let the kid go. Surely there are more awesome things to do around this town than beat up on others…"

The phrasing of the sentence and the heavy dialect gave away the stranger's identity to Matthew, and dread flooded into his heart. It hit him so hard that the blood in his face intensified tenfold, and the eyes that had been pleading began pleading for another reason: for the other's safety. His voice tripped over the other's name like it never had before. "G-G-Gilb-b…!" He gave up while he was ahead, and for the fact that the wind was suddenly knocked out of him. It was a harmless punch delivered to his diaphragm, but it still sent him to his knees.

_I used to be my own protection – but not now_

"And what if we like beatin' up on others?"

The assault infuriated the stranger – after all, he had tried to solve the dispute civilly for once, trying not to get anyone hurt. But it was too late for that. An eye for an eye – a purposely meek punch for a slam across the face; on Gilbert's scale, it balanced out.

Surprised at the hit to their leader – their leader, who was knocked upon his back, bleeding from a nostril – the other two sputtered, and moved to pick him up, but the leader – who had been elected for his strong capacity – stood himself.

A hand attempted to shield the damage to his nose – to hide the blood dripping from his fingers like syrup. But it was all too painfully obvious, as the red splotches splattered against the ground, and slid around in the ice. "You'll pay for that, bastard," he snarled, his voice muffled and not as threatening as it had sounded in his head.

'_Cause my path has lost direction – somehow._

"Don't hurt him," Matthew whimpered, but the traitorous wind captured his voice and saved it for itself. Hopeless and helpless, he remained cowering against the fence. No matter how hard he wanted to scrap himself up and protect his friend, and prevent a full-blown fight, his fragile state of mind, passive nature, and his lack of ideas left him as frozen as the icicles hanging from the house across the street. But as he slowly took in the area around him, he realized the one thing he could do. The one thing… he could… do. As Gilbert chuckled, threatening the attackers with a cheery smile, Matthew slid down against the wood, until his book-bag was firmly in his left hand. His body shook in apprehension.

The leader raised his fist, and that's when Matthew took his chance.

With his bag over his shoulders once more, he reached out and took Gilbert's hand. He tried to shout, "Run!" but his voice didn't follow orders, and made a different noise. At first his feet slid against the pavement, and he almost lost his balance a few times – his legs were so wobbly and unsteady – but he kept trying until he was running full-speed in the direction he had been walking originally. Gilbert was behind him, and they were connected by their hands.

_A black wind took you away – from sight._

There was an annoyed shout from Gilbert in protest. "Holy hell Matthew, you have the worst timing in the world! I was just about to totally bash their vital regions in," he cried. But he was ignored; his words spread throughout the air harmlessly. Blankets of snow began falling harder and harder, showering their vision, and chilling their bones as the afternoon was getting later.

Blocks away, they stopped, Matthew taking a moment to rest his hands on his knees. The hit from earlier was one he hadn't recovered from yet – every breath promised to be fretful. But then he felt wispy, light fingers thread through his hair.

"You okay?" Gilbert asked, still standing, breathing only a bit heavily through his nose. His very dark purple, almost black jacket was thin, but warm and firm, sheltering him against the cold. But the few areas of his skin that did stick out – his hands, his wrists, face and scalp – blossomed in a slight red tint, showing how much the weather was nipping against it. It wasn't a completely uncomfortable feeling – since it was actually a feeling. The yellow scarf that protected his neck was long and over-wrapped, and yet its edges fluttered in the breeze. A smile that wasn't completely his was on his chapped lips.

_And now the darkness over day – that night._

In a short nod, Matthew managed to slowly rise, and affirm his condition. "Y-Yeah. I'm okay. A little shaken up, that's all." His eyes were diluted with tears, making the purple color more of a dark blue. He met the eyes of the other, pleading, thankful, and worried. "Thank you for that… again." His tone fell into something more vulnerable than he would have liked.

"Come on." Gilbert patted his shoulder, and began walking, making sure to kept his steps in tune with the shorter's. "Luckily they didn't get you as bad as last time." He could remember tracing his fingers over deep scratches, wiping blood from the corners of his lips and pressing ice packs to bruises. The memory only fueled his concealed anger even hotter. He had brushed away tears, offered soothing assurances, but couldn't answer the many questions that had been asked of him. Questions like, "_Why do they like hurting me? What did I do wrong? Why does everyone hate me?_" had almost brought Gilbert to sobbing as well. "Bastards."

At the mention of 'last time', Matthew sniffled, and refused to say anything more than a non-committed, "…Yeah."

"Bastards," Gilbert repeated.

* * *

Keeping his back straight, and firm against the brick wall, Gilbert knew what he had to do. More importantly, he knew what he had to do with his own hands. If anyone else served this dish of justice, it wouldn't taste as horrifyingly sweet. He had to feel their dirty blood soaking his fingers, instead of Matthew's. He wanted to inflict their bruises, their cuts – see if they liked it. And when he checked his watch – it blared eleven-fifty-eight at night, on February thirteenth – he knew he was right on time. Valentine's Day was a cheesy holiday, but he couldn't wait any longer to serve his revenge. Gilbert flexed his hands, and briefly tested his reflexes against pain and bared his mind against anything else.

He knew that the group would be meeting in this building – he had overheard them talking during a free period. They were also planning some late-night robbery, in honor of Valentine's Day, to show how much love didn't exist in the world. At least, that's how Gilbert saw it. Shadows stretched across his face, and let his red eyes gleam and flash in anticipation. His pale skin nearly deteriorated within the darkness, giving him a cover that nothing else comfortable enough would have given him. Beneath his boots – boots were more likely to break noses then his sneakers were – snow crunched and withered away. A brisk when that carried meek snowflakes passed through his hair, and touched his clothing. He kept his breath shallow and calm, preparing himself for the adrenaline rush that was sure to come.

_And the clouds above move closer_

Voices spread through the atmosphere like music, making the silverette tense. The voices became louder, the closer they got. They became clearer and crisper until the mass of noise became personal strings of words. A high-pitched voice there, another toward the back, a raspy and monotone one followed, with a snarling, almost hissing voice coming soon afterward. He could characterize them each if he had to. But… since when were there so many of them…? The thought was fleeting, and didn't advance any farther. Gilbert stood upon the tips of his toes, and felt his mind shut down and his feeling numb. All he felt was an unbecoming bloodlust that served to make his movements mechanical, but swift. A smile was on his face, but his lips stretched to shout, "You deserve this, bastards!" He leaped out suddenly, planning to take them by surprise. He wrapped his arm around the neck of someone who was much shorter than him, but dabbed in black as if the color would sell out soon.

Seven pairs of eyes stared toward him, and one pair angrily glared up at him.

E-E-Eight people? Eight thugs, most of them with criminal pasts and all of them with weapons of some sort. And seven of them larger than Gilbert – in every physical sense, except for one, that he could bet his life upon. He felt his determination waver, when he figured out exactly how outnumbered he was. Only three of them had been talking at lunch, and he knew that he and his awesomeness could face three of them. But since when had there been eight? Horror filled his being, and it was a gaseous feeling, that gave him the sensation of light-headedness. If he hadn't justice to serve, he would have fainted on the spot.

_Looking so dissatisfied_

"Aren't you that one that tried to protect that pansy a few days ago?" One of them questioned him, who had a very familiar face. And a busted nose… _oh_. The group formed a circle around this man, designating him as a leader, or a boss of some sort.

Gilbert blanched, and felt his awesomeness fade, if only a bit. He tightened his grip on his hostage, as if it was the only thing that would ensure his safety. It probably was. He forced himself to chuckle, even though his feeling of terror didn't want him laughing. It hung heavy in his chest, suffocating him. His hostage struggled a bit – but had no more strength than a mere child, and it was his atrocious attitude that forced him to wriggle and curse like he did.

He was briefly reminded of Matthew – weak, meek, and ultimately trying to stay on anyone's good side, afraid of everything and everyone – and he remembered why he was there again: for those purple eyes, for those curly locks. "Yeah, that was the awesome me, fool. And weren't you the one whose nose I broke?" He smirked, placing a bit more of his confidence in it than he actually had in stock.

Infuriated, the man shouted, "Bitch! That was a cheap shot." Hands clenched and scowl firm, he took a few steps forward, but stopped when their shortest member made a squeal of pain.

"A cheap shot, huh." Gilbert shrugged, not really caring about the lies that the older made up. He had come for justice, for revenge – not for idle talk. His eyes flared. "And I've come to tell you not to mess with that 'pansy' anymore! If you value your life, that is." But he knew that their lives were not worthy to even be lived, though his opinion was extremely biased.

Weary, he wasn't sure what exactly the silverette was planning; though of course, he couldn't let it show. The man clenched his jaw tighter, but then something caught his eye. For the sake of stealth, he didn't smile or show his pride. He kept the stranger occupied, as the time ticked on. "And what the hell do you think you're going to do?"

A car passed innocently by, with its headlights illuminating the darkness and the light snow.

"I'll crack his neck," was the reply, as Gilbert re-positioned his hands on his hostage's throat. A wicked grin split his features. His blood-lust was finally getting the best of him. He began squeezing… when he felt metal pressed to the side of his own neck.

Nothing had ever felt so cold.

Gilbert's hand stilled, and felt a few heavy breaths pass through his captive's neck. If only he was capable of breathing so lightly. His throat was constricted, and the more he tried to breathe the harder it was. He cleared his throat. "Is that a gun?"

_And the ground below grew colder_

"Don't tell me you're retarded," said someone, who was right behind him, and hissing in his ear.

"…Oh," Gilbert replied, with barely-disguised horror.

They demanded, "Let him go."

And with the weapon pressed to his body, Gilbert couldn't refuse. He did as he was told, and he put his hands up in mock-surrender as the short thug stumbled forward.

The short one's voice was as small as his stature. It was also rather high-pitched, and annoying, like a hummingbird. He also resembled a hummingbird in the way he jumped back and forth, trying to look threatening, but only looking stupid. "You think you cool, fool? You think you cool?! I show you cool! You think you can jus' hold one a' us like dat an' get 'way with it? Oh, no. Oh hell no. You can no walk up in 'ere and boss us 'round! We show you to respect us!" He leaned forward, still talking in his barely-coherent dialect, to begin using the stranger's long stomach as a punching bag, since it was to his eye-level.

Gilbert felt no pain. Nothing at all, really – it was more of a vibration against his skin, a bit calming. But a quick plan formed in his mind. He doubled over, letting a faked "Oomph!" escape his lips. By falling to his knees, he was out of the gun's path. So quickly, before the gunman could recover, Gilbert performed a move he had seen multiple times before. He let out his leg, and swiped the other's from beneath him. The _crunch_ of the snow as the man fell and the yelp he emitted made Gilbert smile in success.

But the _bang_ as the gun went off made his happiness fade.

_As they put you down inside_

He couldn't feel anything. His face – numb. His eyesight – black. He felt the motion of slumping forward, and then nothing else.

"Holy fuck, dude!" shouted the leader, in terror, glancing between the lump on the ground and the man on his back with a smoking gun. "Why'd you shoot 'im?!" They weren't supposed to shoot. They were only supposed to scare – and then shoot if things got out of hand. Falling to the ground definitely wasn't out of hand. You could just stand back up.

"I-I-I didn't mean ta!" The accused hurried up and onto his feet. His movements were jerky, shocked. "It was an accident, my finger slipped!" He stammered, "I-Is 'e dead?!"

The whole group began backing up, not wanting to have anything to do with the scenario. One of them cried, "How the fuck are we supposed to know?!" Honestly, none of them paid any attention in health – or was it science? They didn't even know.

Blood began soaking into the snow, dying the pure white an agonizing red. It made them all squirm.

"Th-The police'll get us!" said someone else, appalled.

A tall one suggested, "L-Let's get out of here!"

And so they went, multiple pairs of footsteps running in the snow. Only a gurgled groan responded to them.

_But the heartless wind kept blowing – blowing._

* * *

The sirens woke him up. Matthew rubbed at his eyes, and almost missed a streak of red and blue that stretched across his room, and then faded. He heard commotion within his own house, and wondered if his family's loud arguments had finally alerted the neighbors. But if the police were at his home – which wasn't likely, because he couldn't hear the sirens anymore – Matthew knew he needed to get out there to sort the situation out. When infuriated, Francis would begin speaking in French, and Matthew usually served as translator. He ripped the blankets off of himself, and moved to make himself presentable by plucking a deep red bathrobe and draping it around his shoulders. He even tied it tightly in the middle as he put on white slippers. He noticed then that his brother's blue robe and red-and-white slippers were missing. Strongly, he hoped that Alfred wasn't the cause of the commotion.

But when he pulled open his door, and after he scooted out through the hallway, he looked into the living room to see that it was Alfred making most of the noise. The noise, now that Matthew was closer, was distinguishable as almost-high-pitched wails, shuddering sobs and a few hiccups. Stunned, Matthew remained where he was, and let the scene play out before him while he tried to find his wits.

"…Alfred, shush," Arthur tried, bending down to Alfred, who was sitting in a wide chair. The Englishman sat upon his heels and put his hands on his son's knees, and rubbed soothing circles. His eyebrows were pushed together in slight confusion, slight sympathy.

Francis pursed his lips, preventing his musings and perplexities from releasing themselves. He simply moved behind Arthur, and said, "Calm down please, Alfred, you'll make yourself sick."

Alfred took a very deep breath, but didn't move from his position with his wet face in his hands. "I h-h-hated him! I t-totally hated his g-g-guts! B-But he was a human, t-t-too, right? And this didn't deserve to h-h-happen! I should have… I should have t-treated him better!"

"You couldn't have seen this coming," Arthur cried. "There's nothing you could have done."

"N-No," Alfred insisted, rubbing at his eyes and wiping his mouth. "I c-could have been more of a h-hero and been nice to him, l-like everyone should! E-Even if he was stupid!"

Heavily, Francis sighed. He mused the other's hair, and began telling him exactly what he needed to hear, as if the teenager was a child: "No, you'll always be a hero, no matter what you do."

With watery eyes, Alfred looked up, expressing his vulnerability and his hope. "R-Really?"

Arthur knew exactly what his husband was doing, and let him take care of it.

"Yes, Alfred," Francis finally soothed, helping both Arthur and Alfred up from their positions. "Come now, we should go to bed. We wouldn't want to wake –"

"What happened?" Matthew asked quietly, as his family turned to him in sync. Oh, how he wished for the soft material of his stuffed bear to be between his hands. Since he didn't have any support, he resorted to clenching and un-clenching his fingers, testing his knuckles. Clueless, he just stared between them, wanting to be included in the whole scenario – wanting to be included.

Alfred looked like he was about to start crying again, but he brought back his manly personality in the face of his younger brother. The fact that he had been seen wailing was enough to weaken his pride, so he couldn't let it continue any longer. He firmly set his jaw so that it didn't quiver, and he blinked a few times to clear the clouds of condensation that had formed in their corners. Then he puffed up his chest, but couldn't bring himself to say a single word.

Defense weakened at the sight of his son, Francis pouted a bit. Breaking bad news had never been his strong point… comforting people he could do much better than Arthur, but when it came to weakening spirits… that was his husband's cup of tea, even if the tea was so bitter and hot that it numbed his tongue. Francis lightly took Alfred by the elbow and escorted it to his room, effectively giving Arthur and Matthew space to talk.

Left alone in the room with a rather morose looking father, Matthew felt a sense of panic envelope his senses. "Wh-What happened? Why was Al crying?" He moved a bit closer to Arthur, his face politely expressing his confusion, but also begging to be informed. "Does this have to do with the police? Who was –?"

"It would be better if you didn't ask so many questions," Arthur interrupted, for more his own sake than his son's. It was hard on him as well, the whole aspect of the situation. "I'll answer whatever I can, but mind you, I don't have all the answers." He winced at how pathetic he sounded – him, the parent. "Sit down." And when his son was sitting at the edge of the chair – his nerves probably preventing him from doing otherwise – Arthur sucked in a large breath. "There's been an incident, a few blocks from here, near that abandoned building that used to be the hair parlor years ago." He remembered it as the place he had taken his sons to get their first hair cuts… how Alfred had screamed, and how Matthew tried his best to swallow his fear, but it had shown in his eyes… Francis had even sacrificed his own hair by getting a terrible haircut, just to show them that it actually didn't hurt… Arthur had fun teasing him about it for the next few months, despite the adoration he felt. "Um… a boy your age was found dead, lying in the snow. He died from a gunshot… and the neighbors had heard it, called the police… but the boy had already been dead for two minutes, or something." He knew only one thing more. Their own neighbor – a chirpy one by the name of Feliks – had rushed by with the scarce details, eager to inform everyone about the mishap.

Matthew frowned, his compassion evident. He slumped back a bit, taking the news in, before sitting erect once more. His eyes roared with theory. "Who... who was it? Alfred was making quite a fuss…" In his mind, he scrolled through his brother's enemies, since Alfred had said he had hated the person who was lying dead: there was Ivan, who never got along with him; Estefan, who his brother constantly owed money to… had either of them become victims? In his sorry state of dismay, bewilderment, and fatigue, Matthew couldn't remember any other names, but he knew his brother was on the bad side of many students.

"I don't know if you know him, but…" Arthur met the other's eyes, waiting for any sense of recognition. "Ah, Gilbert Weillschmidt?" And the reaction he received was nothing he had bargained for.

_So now you're gone_

First thing that came over Matthew was denial. He pulled on a crooked and weary smile. "Ha ha, that's funny, Dad. But seriously, who was it? My best friend wouldn't do anything that would get himself harmed like that… never." Or would he? His mind became a traitor, telling him that it was right up Gilbert's ally to get in the way of dangerous happenings.

Arthur recoiled, as if struck, and let his shining emerald eyes widen and waver. "Best… friend?" He had heard nothing about Matthew having such a bond with someone else. He had heard nothing at all – not even Alfred had hinted at it. Was there some sort of secret that made Gilbert something… not worth mentioning to family? Or was Gilbert too important to even mention to family? Arthur blinked, and felt his throat dry. He shook his head, willing away thoughts. "Matthew… you never told me that you had a friend." He meant it in the kindest way, of course.

Matthew laughed, as tears spiked his eyes. "Oh, sorry about that. I mean… it just never came up." A shrug indicated the subject change. "But, anyway, about that boy in the snow…? Wh-Who is he? Alfred wouldn't be saddened at… Gilbert…" Then he remembered how his brother's and his friend's egos clashed, how they often got into disputes over who was more awesome… could that count as hate?

_And I was wrong_

As he leaned down in front of him – much like he had done for Alfred – Arthur nearly broke when he saw tears. Tears as clear as day, but as devastating as night. "I'm not lying to you, Matthew, even though at the moment I wish I was…"

"Wh-Wh-What on e-earth was he doing?!" He exclaimed loudly, his voice cracking with realization and admittance. "H-He shouldn't have done… whatever he did!" He wiped at his eyes. Tears weren't his friend – Gilbert was his friend.

Arthur sighed through his nose, and yawned behind his hand. Sleep was pulling at his eyelids, making his muscles go weak and his resolution swim. But he had to remain strong for Matthew, who was hurting deeper than he would ever know. Patting the younger's head, Arthur attempted with, "There's nothing we can do now, what's done is done." He frowned when he saw how much his words were not helping, and he changed his route of articulation. "We can find out more information later, kid. And make sure who ever did this to him goes away for a long, long time."

Matthew hiccupped. "But that won't help anything! He's still gone! He'll… he'll never come back…" He slouched into the chair, feeling the need for posture insignificant. His sobs reached a new level of desperateness, when he realized how deep he was buried underneath his emotions and his predicament. "Who… who will be there for me now, h-huh? N-No one else helped me like he did! I can't… I can't f-face anyone without him th-there to help me; I can't do a-a-anything!"

_I never knew what it was like_

Although thoroughly perplexed at what his son was shouting about, Arthur knew that he had to step in – ease the pain and the hysteria. He couldn't do that by questioning him, though, questions would make it worse. He had to accept it all as if it was old information, and save his inquiries for later. Though, with this method, stepping on toes was something that would happen more likely than not… Covered in a sense of unease, Arthur said, "Matthew, it's okay. I know this is hard on you, and it's such a shock, but please try to calm down. Everything will be alright, son. There will be people willing to help you."

And that's when Matthew realized it – that there was no one.

_To be alone…_

Matthew tried to somber himself, to calm himself, to stop crying. But tears kept falling like rain, his sorrow overshadowing his disbelief. He breathed in, and his chest shook violently with the effort. His trembling hands clenched the chair's material, as if relying on it to keep him sane. If he was, then it was doing a horrible job. When he said nothing, his father filled the air with words.

"And it's Valentine's Day, no good for such horrible feelings, right?"

And that echoed in Matthew's head.

_On a Valentine's Day_

Matthew nodded blearily. His dad was doing so horribly at comforting him, but he knew the effort had been in vain in the first place. Matthew managed to stand on weary legs, and Arthur put out his hands for support, but he declined them. "I-I-I g-guess I'll…" He sniffed. "Go to bed, then. I… there's nothing else I can do." He felt like crying once more, but he suppressed it.

Arthur put on a meek smile for the other's benefit. "Alright, Mattie. You do that. I'll…" He would physically regret what he was about to say, but if Francis could give up his hair for their sons, Arthur could hand over a day's worth of sleep. "I guess I'll stay up and try to find out more information for you, son. I'm sorry." And he meant his apology.

Without a word, Matthew trudged back into his room, letting the door close lightly behind him. Even though his father hadn't been one for comfort, he knew his pillow was. And days or weeks after the incident – when more information was found – his pillow would be the only think to swallow his sorrows, his pain, and his guilt.

_On a Valentine's Day_

* * *

**A/N**: Lyrics used are from the song: _**Valentine's Day**_** by Linkin Park**

Estefan = Cuba. Though you probably already knew that.

Oh, and if anyone can tell me what this means: "_And seven of them larger than Gilbert – in every physical sense, except for one, that he could bet his life upon._" you get a cookie or three.

As for the thing between Arthur and Francis - Francis, I think, is really good at helping people when they're upset or sad or feeling emotionally sick. Things like that - problems, Francis knows how to fix. Anyone that comes up to him, he can figure out how to comfort them and make them feel better, or at least look at it in a different way; but he can't break news to people. He can't handle the heartbreak, really. But Arthur, on the other hand, is able to break news. He knows how to phrase things to have the least effect, and can give his sympathy, but once the news is delivered... he has no idea what to do from there. He knows basic ways of comforting, but nothing more than that. That's why he and Francis make a good duo. :)

Oh my gosh this was terrible… ouch. Fail story is fail. I'm so sorry for not giving you anything better on Valentine's Day. …Or giving you anything happy. Darn it, I'm such a killjoy. But I'm single, that's why. :) I realized that in two of my more serious stories, Matthew was the one shot. …I changed it up a bit here, but I suppose that doesn't help you at all. (Sorry!) The song's awesome, by the way… um, if you have any questions ask, but until then:

**Happy Valentine's Day~!**

…_-is shot by people who like happy holidays with happy fluff-_


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